“What?”
“I want to hit with something else.” His mouth did that thing that I didn’t want to see, where it twitched, as if we shared a secret.
“You always hit with that bat.”
His eyes flickered at my tone, and he stepped closer. “I’ll try the Marucci.”
“Why?” This was stupid. He’d hit with a Louisville Slugger all season, and now he wanted to try something new?
“Is something wrong?” Dad was suddenly there, next to me, his eyes hard on Chase.
“No,” I muttered, grabbing Chase’s backup bat, another Slugger, and thrusting it out to him, my eyes daring him not to take it.
He did, flipping the old bat toward me, the exchange wordless, the weight of Dad’s eyes stifling. Then Cortez hit a single and Chase was up, his glance at me unreturned, my actions brisk as I wiped off his original bat, sliding it into place, my back to him when he swung hard, the Louisville Slugger sending the ball high into the cheap seats, the home run adding three runs to the board.
Try a Marucci bat. Guess I wasn’t the only one walking around with a head full of stupid.
“What’s wrong?”
I froze, bent over my tennis shoe, my final knot of laces slow as I bought an extra second before standing. I looked up to the front of the locker room, where he stood, his hand on the doorway, an edge to his voice.
“Nothing.” I grabbed my jacket and shrugged into it.
“You’re not staying for the second game?” His gaze skated over my jeans. We were into the first inning of the second game, today a long doubleheader day.
“Just running up to the box, got a message for Heston’s wife.” I held up the folded piece of paper, a note I already peeked at, the sexual promises in it stopping my snoop three sentences in.
“You’re acting weird.”
I pulled the end of my ponytail out of my jacket, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t feel well.”
“This have anything to do with last night?” He stepped closer, and I moved back, grabbing at my phone. I wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not in front of this asshole. “It does.” He sounded surprised. “I thought you were okay with all of that. It wasn’t…” His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to push, if you weren’t ready—”
I cut him off before this conversation got more off track. “It wasn’t that.”
In the stadium, there was a cheer, something happening. I felt a sear of panic. “You need to go. You’ll be up soon.” Someone could come in at any moment. Our staff. The Reds’ staff. Another player. Someone could come in and we’d—this—would be caught.
“Did I miss something?” He moved, blocking my exit, and gripped my shoulders with both hands. I finally looked up, a mistake. He looked so innocent, so sincere, his brow furrowed over those gorgeously dark eyes. Eyes that I had fallen into last night. Eyes that I had seen a future in, some ridiculous imaginary future. “I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought last night was pretty great.”
Ha. Fury boiled in me, images burned in my soul pushing to the surface, the heave of cleavage, his bare back, the run of a girl’s hand down it, her mouth reaching for his face… “It was great,” I spit out. “Until you left. Until you went back to your room and—” I couldn’t finish. The words stuck in my throat like bile.
He let go of me. “You went to my room? Last night?”
“Yeah.”
He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what’d you see?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Not a confession, just a request to know how deep his grave was dug.
I shouldn’t have answered. I should have pushed for more, pinned him until everything came out. But we were in the middle of the game, and our time was short. “Girls.” I swallowed hard. “Kissing you.”
“They didn’t kiss me.” One of his hands was back on my arm, and he was guiding me, until my shoulders hit a locker, and his stare was impossible to escape from. “Look at me.”
I was looking. I couldn’t not look. I was staring into his eyes, and I believed him when he spoke.
“They had a connection. They got me some coke. They were there, they snorted it with me, they left. Nothing happened.”
“Coke?” I whispered. “Cocaine? Are you stupid?!” I yelled the word, shoving at his chest, but it didn’t give. I glared into those eyes and saw shame.
“Yeah.” He gritted out. “I was. And I was weak. And I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry to me!” I exploded. “If you get tested—”
“It’s out of my system in three days. And I’m not going to get tested. You know they don’t test for that unless I give them a reason—”
The door at the end of the locker room banged open, and a ball boy squinted at us, Chase caging me against the wall. “Mr. Stern?” the teenager called out, some Cincinnati local.
“Yeah?” Chase didn’t turn his head; he stared at me, eyes begging for understanding that I couldn’t give.